Holy Pilgrimage Centurion Church,
Los Angeles
23rd August, 2107
The stained glass windows were flickering violently. Reality has started to glitch, yet another sign of the coming apocalypse. Gwen hated churches. They always smelled like damp secrets and stubborn prayers.
Her team was already seated in one pew-lined half of the chapel with increased suits. That half part of the chapel reeked of them, science and she loved it. It was home.
The other half shimmered, not metaphorically, like literally shimmered, with glittering robes and long ears and moonstone crowns that made Gwen want to throw a shoe at. The Fairy Delegates of Old England, they call themselves.
Her system whispered in her ear:
[Fairy air particle density has increased by 47%. Recommend filter mask.]
She didn't bother.
Even though the air buzzed with unsaid things and overused perfumes, she wasn't going to show off her filter mask to these idiots who do not appreciate science.
Finally, the Lead Fairy, an ageless thing with cheekbones like spears, stood. "We thank the Mother of Systems for hosting us in this temple. Though we do not kneel to logic, we bend to purpose."
Gwen didn't respond. Host them? Pfft! She was already bored.
"We agree," continued the fairy, "that each child must be gifted a guardian. One of heart. One of fate."
"And one of function," Dr. Ramirez from Gwen's team cut in. He flipped through a digital folder. "We propose pairing each child with either a designated System Scientist or an assigned fairy representative. Statistically balanced."
"Science does not raise a soul!" the fairy hissed, her wings fluttering like offended lace. "Would you leave a newborn to the mind of a man with a troubled mind? To metal? To calculation?"
The other fairies murmured. They were nodding in a ripple of judgment and Gwen could only see lizards in them.
Dr. Yune chuckled. "And you'd leave one to magic tricks we are not certain of if it's real and bedtime riddles?"
Another fairy slammed her wand—yes, wand—on the bench. "You mock prophecy, but forget your little satellites failed to predict the rain lava."
"That was a data lapse, not a flaw in science," Ramirez retorted. "Where were your moonstones and magic sticks then?"
"Oh, you ridiculous men who wants to know everything caused it, not us," one fairy sniffed. "Men, scientists, do not carry spirit. Only shadow. They cannot be godfathers or godmothers. That is not a gift. That is a hex."
"And you," Gwen cut in smoothly, "Are glitter in daylight that can't even be seen by the kids. Let's not act like either side is immortal. The kids need protection, not performance."
The room grew uncomfortably quiet.
One of Gwen's younger techs, Zora, leaned in and whispered with a grin, "Bet the fairies don't even know how to spell algorithm."
A fairy with wild red curls turned sharply. "We do not spell it. We foresee it. In tea leaves and bloodlines."
"Oh dear God," Gwen muttered. How dumb were these dwarves?!
"Not God," said the Lead Fairy, "but Fate."
"That too is under review and has not been proven to be a real thing aside from being a mere word in the dictionary," Dr. Yune replied with a shrug.
Another scientist added dryly, "We'll take the orphans that still have teeth and a sound mind for starters. The fairies can have the ones who speak to clouds."
A fairy rose, offended. "We are guardians, not cloud interpreters!"
Gwen sighed. She sipped her cocoa tea which her system discreetly kept refilling, and stood. Her voice sliced through both teams. "Enough. You're both lunatics, just different fonts."
She walked to the middle of the room.
"We assign each kid one guardian. One from your sparkly court, and one from my lab coat cult until it has gone round and complete. Balance." She pointed at the hovering screen her system projected beside her. "All 142 kids. Divided and cross-paired. There were no ego choices as it was randomized by the Almighty System above mine."
This central Almighty System was made by the team wholly and so it didn't belong to anyone but the government.
Both sides groaned in spiritual and scientific protest.
"But what of compatibility?" one fairy said. "Not all children are ready for knowledge of root and leaf!"
"And not all are ready for the rigid expectations of coding at age five," Gwen shot back. "Still, it's happening. The world's ending. We don't have the luxury of arguments. Or prophecy. Or peer-reviewed journals."
One fairy narrowed her eyes. "You killed your lover."
Gwen didn't blink. "And yet, here I stand. Want to see how good I am at dismembering myths?"
The room fell silent.
Her system whispered again:
[Mission parameters: Balance achieved. 71 fairies. 71 scientists. Children: assigned.]
[Abigail Susanna Winthrop Hawthorne has entered the premises.]
"Well, she's late!" Gwen whispered back.
The door creaked open. Everyone turned.
A tall figure stepped in. Glitter trailed her gown like smoke.
Gwen squinted. "This the new one?" she muttered.
"Indeed," said the Lead Fairy, a little breathless. "She… is."
The stained-glass shadows lengthened behind Gwen as the new one entered.
One of the older fairies gasped, clutched her chest as though she'd spotted death itself.
"That… that is her. The one they burned." She touched her own pointed ear as if shielding it. "She was taken from us in the Witch Trials. When the humans turned their fear into flame and our wings into ash. It was her death that pushed us into the forest and under the veil."
Another whispered, awed and breaking into rhyme, "She was flame-fed and name-stripped, bled by the devout… and yet belief brought her back out."
A third added, "The humans never stopped believing in us and that is why we are all here again. Every story told, every tooth beneath a pillow, every name whispered in woods…. they kept us breathing."
Gwen snorted. "You were saved by bedtime traditions and dollar-store glitter? That explains so much."
But she wasn't laughing now.
Because Abigail—or whatever-the-hell-her-name-was was here, and she didn't look like a fairy. She didn't flutter. She didn't even glance back.
She moved backwards into the chapel, one hand lowering her briefcase and the other adjusting a wide-rimmed hat as though shielding herself from a sun that didn't even exist here in a roofed building.
She was tall. Taller than any of the fairy-folk, whose pride had always exceeded their height.
She had no wings, no pointed ears, just long limbs and that stiff Victorian posture like she expected the world to curtsy.
Gwen narrowed her eyes. "You're Abigail?"
There was a bit of silence, followed by a drawn out sigh.
Then the woman answered, still not turning,
"I shall appreciate you call my full name, as I now bear the moniker Abigail Susanna Winthrop Hawthorne, also known as Matilda. I happened upon the latter—Matilda—while travelling from the past into your rather.... inelegant present, and found it pleasing to the ear."
Her voice had the texture of an opera curtain. It was thick, theatrical, and dusted with judgment.
She finally turned.
And Gwen, who didn't flinch for earthquakes, for gunfire, or for magical outbursts at war councils, seized up like a kicked terminal.
She had seen this woman before. She had met this woman before.
Abigail—Matilda—locked eyes with Gwen. And tilted her head.
"What is this being," she said. Her voice was slow and literally dragging each syllable, "of such… darkness?"
The room collectively gasped. A few scientists shifted uncomfortably. A fairy coughed into her sleeve.
Gwen's mouth twitched.